Читать книгу Perfect Dead: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked - Jackie Baldwin - Страница 10

He allowed them a few minutes to settle then entered with Rosie. The couple looked to be in their mid-fifties and introduced themselves as George and Doreen. Doreen’s eyes were red raw with weeping.

Farrell was pleased to see PC Green immediately took the lead, taking Doreen’s hand in hers and offering her condolences. Once the couple had been given their tea, Farrell sat opposite them at the oval table and gently began.

‘When was the last time you saw your son?’

‘He came for lunch on Wednesday, Inspector. He was on top of the world,’ said Doreen, her mouth twisting as she held back tears.

‘Any particular reason for that?’

‘He’d received word the week before that he’d been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize, a major art award. His career was about to take off. It was all starting to happen for him.’

‘How many people knew he’d been shortlisted?’

‘Probably half of Dumfries by the time she’d done shouting about it,’ said George, giving his wife an affectionate pat on the arm. ‘She was that proud of him.’

‘When did you last speak to him?’ asked Farrell.

‘He normally phoned on a Sunday evening, no matter what,’ Doreen said. ‘But we didn’t hear from him last night. Now we know why.’ A thought occurred, and she turned to her husband, her hand over a mouth stretched in agony.

‘Oh God, George, maybe if we’d phoned him, instead of letting it go, we could have stopped him, changed his mind.’ She broke down once more, and PC Green put her arm around her making low soothing noises.

‘You mustn’t think like that,’ said Farrell.

‘We thought he must be out celebrating still with friends, didn’t want to cramp his style,’ said his father.

‘Could you give a list of his friends’ names and addresses to PC Rosie Green, as soon as is convenient? They might be able to help us with filling in a timeline.’

‘Well, the thing is, we’ve never met any of them,’ said Doreen. ‘Not his artist friends anyway. There are a couple of lads he was at school with in Dumfries that he saw once in a blue moon.’

‘I see,’ said Farrell. ‘Did Monro have a girlfriend?’

‘He’d been seeing a Dumfries girl, Nancy Quinn, for a couple months,’ said Doreen. ‘We met her once and she seemed nice enough. They went skiing together in December.’

‘Had he ever suffered from depression?’

His parents looked at each other.

‘You might as well, tell me,’ said Farrell. ‘We’ll have to request his medical records as part of our enquiries.’

‘He suffered from depression a few years ago. He got in with a group of artists,’ said Doreen.

‘Bloody hippie commune, more like,’ said George. ‘From what I could gather they spent as much time on sex and drugs as they did on their art.’

‘It didn’t suit him,’ said Doreen. ‘He wasn’t brought up to that kind of lifestyle. He became very low and so we fetched him home. A few months later he was right as rain. He never looked back, did he George?’

‘How long ago was this?’ asked Farrell.

‘Three years or so,’ replied Doreen.

‘Painted up a storm ever since. A new girlfriend as well. For him to kill himself now? Well it doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ said George.

Farrell was inclined to agree with him, but kept his counsel.

PC Green leaned forward.

‘Doreen have you been in touch with Nancy yet?’

She shook her head, eyes welling with tears once more.

‘Not yet. We thought it best to come in first, so we had some proper information to give her. She lives in Dumfries, so we’ll head there after this.’

‘We’ll need her contact details,’ said Farrell.

Doreen rooted about in her handbag and wrote them down on a scrap of paper, which she then passed across.

‘The note,’ said George. ‘We need to know what it said.’

Wishing he could spare them this pain, Farrell opened the file in front of him and passed a copy across.

Doreen burst into tears and leant against her husband for support. George, however, kept staring at the letter, his brows drawn together as though puzzled.

Farrell leaned forward, sensing his hesitation.

‘Something’s not right about the signature. It’s like it is his writing but it’s not his writing at the same time,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’m not making any sense. Doreen, love what do you think?’

She visibly pulled herself together and stared at the words again.

‘I know what you mean but I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘There was an almost empty bottle of whisky found beside him. It’s possible he’d been drinking,’ said Farrell.

‘No way!’ said George. ‘He loathed the stuff. Our son was raised in a working-class home, Inspector. He was a beer drinker. He might have had the odd nip to be sociable, but I don’t see him sitting there, knocking it back on his own.’

Farrell noticed it was close to noon. Time to wrap things up.

‘I can promise you one thing,’ he said. ‘At this stage we’re keeping an open mind and considering all possibilities. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of PC Green, who has now been appointed as your Family Liaison Officer and will keep you advised of any further developments.’

‘Once you’ve seen Mr and Mrs Stevenson out, I’d like you to come straight back up for the briefing,’ he said to PC Green.

‘Yes, sir.’

Farrell walked along to the briefing with a heavy heart. He knew he should be relatively immune to the suffering of parents after all these years in the force, but their grief always burrowed its way under his skin.